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"Here I am!" cried a bright, fresh voice, and a slender youth, belonging to Prince Henry's regiment, stepped forward and joined them. "Who calls me? what do you want?" "We want you to cook noodles for us, Buschman; every man pays a groschen, and eats to his heart's content. You shall have them for nothing, because you prepare them."
"We will be there," said the mothers, gazing with tearful eyes at the triumphant faces of their sons. The young maidens whom the boys invited to dance, passed them in silence. Old Buschman, alone, did not answer his son's invitation, nor did he follow the rest to the village, but turned to the side of the churchyard where his wife was buried.
Her tall, slender, but full form was leaning against the tree an inspired smile was on her lip, and her eyes, raised to heaven, beamed with holy fire. She stood as if in a dream, and at first did not hear old Buschman ask her to read on. When he repeated his request, she was startled, and turned her glance slowly down from heaven upon the joyful crowd that surrounded her.
"And, by my soul, we will do that," said Fritz, eagerly. "Your majesty may believe me I will march with you to the end of the earth, and so will my friend Charles Buschman. If we have only a little to eat, we will find water everywhere; so lead us where you will!" The king's eyes flashed: "By heaven! it is a pleasure to lead such soldiers to battle!"
"Still, Fritz," whispered Charles Henry Buschman, "our king does not need the help of a fairy; our king can maintain his own cause, and God is with his sword." "Do you truly believe that, my son?" said the king, deeply moved. "Have you still this great confidence in me? Do you still believe that I can sustain myself and that God is with me?"
"I ought to know you," said he, "this is not the first time we have spoken together. What is your name, my son?" "Fritz Kober is my name," said the grenadier. "And yours?" "Charles Henry Buschman," said the other. "You are not mistaken, sir king! we have met and spoken before, but it was on a better night than this." "Where was it?" said the king.
It was a most bitter necessity, and no one felt it more deeply than the old shepherd Buschman, the father of Charles Henry. He sat, as we first saw him, on the slope of the field where his flock was grazing, guarded and kept in order by the faithful Phylax. His eye was not clear and bright as then, but troubled and sorrowful, and his countenance bore an expression of the deepest grief.
She then divided her few possessions, leaving to every friend some slight remembrance, such as ribbons, a prayer-book, or a handkerchief. Her clothes she divided among the village wives. But her house, with all its contents, she left to Father Buschman, with the request that he would live in it, at least in summer.
"I am as strong and as healthy as you," said she, "my sight is as sharp, my hand as sure. Were I Charles Henry Buschman, I would be a good soldier, for I have courage I would lot tremble at the cannon-balls." "But, fortunately, you are not a man," said Charles Henry, laughing. "You are the beautiful Anna Sophia, who is this day to become my wife to save me from being a soldier."
Charles Henry Buschman had returned from Cleve; they had told him he could be spared for a while. The second report was that Anna Sophia had not returned from her visit. They waited for several days, and as she did not come, Charles Henry went to the distant village where her aunt lived. But he returned with sad news. Anna Sophia was not there, her aunt had not seen her. What had become of her?
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